


When You're Standin Oh So Near (I Kinda Lose My Mind)

by tracy7307



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 00:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17756438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracy7307/pseuds/tracy7307
Summary: Billy led them to the locker room, which was empty since there was no gym period first hour. He stopped at his gym locker and pulled out several bottles. “Take your clothes off, Harrington.”Steve’s stomach flipped. “What - What-” his voice sounded high-pitched in his own ears, a little hysterical.Billy turned with an armful of supplies and held a towel out to Steve. “I’m gonnahelpyou dumbass. With your hair, and whatever other shit you need help with. Okay?”Steve took the towel. He didn’t really know what to say, didn’t really want to utter thebut, why?that was hiding in his mouth, so he just nodded.“Okay. Let’s,” he gestured up Steve’s head, “let’s wash your hair."





	When You're Standin Oh So Near (I Kinda Lose My Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> for harringrove week of love's prompt: Bad Hair Day

As Steve toyed with Billy’s hair, a lock of it curled around his middle finger. Billy dozed with his head on Steve’s thigh and the sheets gathered around his waist. Steve could scarcely move, and not just because of Billy’s head -- each moment of this relationship felt so delicate. Fragile. Like if he moved too quickly he’d upset some sort of china-fine balance upon which all of this intimacy rested. He thought about how it started.

It was all clearly Frank Greening’s fault.

On a Wednesday evening three weeks ago, Frank sent Steve flying across the blacktop. 

Steve, Tommy, Billy, and Frank were playing a pickup game. Spring weather and longer days meant more time to play in the cool air. They went hard that day -- none of them had played since they lost to Crown Point three weeks ago, putting an depressing end to their season. There was no trash talk, just intense breathing and focused energy. 

Frank was watching Tommy handle the ball, not paying attention, and slammed back into Steve. The impact sent him flying toward the ground. 

Steve felt like he fell for two minutes straight. The concrete came up to meet him in slow motion, and he had enough time to think _should’ve planted my feet ugh fuck Billy was right_ , and nature did the rest -- he reflexively stuck out his right hand to break his fall. 

Adrenaline pumped through his blood and he didn’t move. He felt stunned.

“Shit, Harrington, shit!” Frank said. “Sorry man.” He offered Steve his hand to help him up. 

“No worries,” Steve said. He placed his hand in Frank’s and when Frank pulled a fucking lightning bolt of pain shot up his arm. “Mother _fucker_.” Steve cradled his right hand to his chest. 

“You alright Steve?” Tommy took a step forward.

“Ah shit, I think my hand’s fucked up,” Steve said. He tried moving his fingers a little and found his thumb wasn’t flexing. 

“Man I’m sorry,” Frank said. “You should go to ER.” 

“I’ll take him,” Billy spat. He stared Frank down as he walked past. “Fuckin clumsy-ass orc.” 

“Dude I said I was sorry,” Frank said as he held up his hands defensively. 

“Watch what the fuck you’re doing next time, asswipe,” Billy said. He placed a hand on the small of Steve’s back. 

“Hey, Billy, it’s okay, really,” Steve said, because what the fuck? Billy looked like he was ready to rip Frank’s head off. 

“Come on.” Billy glared back over his shoulder at Frank once before stalking off toward his car. “I’ll drive.” 

Steve tried lifting the Camaro’s passenger door handle and his thumb _throbbed_. The handle slipped from his fingers. “Fuck.” 

“Here,” Billy came around and pulled open the door. Steve slid in and Billy closed the door for him. He felt lame as hell for not being able to lift a simple fucking door handle -- and a little embarrassed because he kind of felt like a girl on a date. 

Billy stuck around throughout the whole ordeal in the hospital, despite Steve telling him that he could go if he wanted, Steve could just call a cab. Because whatever this new peace between them was over the last few months, it certainly didn’t involve waiting around in an ER room with _Webster_ playing on the tiny TV and Billy’s _don’t really feel like going home and staring at my walls so whatever, Harrington, did you study for that English test yet?_. 

For two hours Billy talked about anything and nothing, jabbering about whatever, and Steve found himself distracted from the pain and discomfort by the stream of classes, basketball, gossip, car talk, music, that came from Billy’s mouth. Finally the doctor returned, said Steve had a tiny fracture in his thumb, and sent him home with a splint on his thumb with directions to refrain from heavy lifting. It would heal in four to six weeks. 

Billy took Steve back to his car, still parked at the school. “You sure you can do this, Harrington?” Billy asked. He got out of his car and leaned against the frame. Steve used his left hand to unlock his car door, and yeah it was clumsy, but he felt pretty confident that he could manage it. 

“Only one way to find out,” Steve said as jammed the key in the ignition, holding it between his fingers and the palm of his right hand. 

Billy followed him home and parked in the driveway as Steve fumbled with his house keys, dropping them once, taking forever to awkwardly jam it in the lock. It was odd to do all of this left handed. Finally the door opened. Before Steve could even turn to say _thanks_ , Billy was peeling away.

_~*~_

“Fuck this shit.” Steve threw down his comb on the bathroom counter. He couldn’t use his right hand, not without his thumb -- had the _hardest_ time brushing his teeth with his left hand, that shit took forever, but at least his breath wouldn’t smell horrible, and now? Now using this comb at this stupid fucking angle just wasn’t working. The left side of his hair was tamed down a bit, still a little sloppy, but the right side stuck up at comical angles and not in a cool John Taylor kind of way. Trying to jam it into place with his fingers didn’t work, either.

This whole routine of misery had already taken Steve fifty-seven minutes -- he attempted to twist open a shampoo bottle cap but dropped it and spilled a quarter of the contents on the shower floor because he couldn’t fucking _grip_ anything because of his thumb, so his hair was only like half washed anyway, which was why he couldn’t get it to fucking _do_ anything. 

And he couldn’t wear his favorite jeans because they were button fly -- that was a battle he was not ready to fight. So he tugged on a pair of sweatpants. Not cute, but easy enough.

“Okay. You know what? I have a test in English today, and _I don’t have the fucking time_ for this,” he said down to the comb and gestured up at his hair.

The comb did not respond.

So when he walked in the doors of Hawkins High, he felt like a record scratched and silence fell over the halls. In reality only four people stopped to look at him because of his odd sweatpants/fucked-up hair combination, but it certainly seemed like the entire school was watching. 

And sure, maybe his crown slid off, but whatever, Steve couldn’t find it within himself to _care_.

Not everyone seemed to feel that way, though.

Billy came marching up to him and leaned in with a little crinkle between his eyebrows. Kinda cute, if Steve was being honest with himself. “What the fuck.” 

Steve shrugged one shoulder and leaned against the nearest locker. “What’s wrong, Hargrove?” 

Billy looked down at his watch, then back at Steve. He touched Steve’s hair. “Nope. No way this is happening. You look like a tropical bird. We’re skipping first hour. Come on.” 

First hour was art anyway, and Steve somehow was carrying an **A** in that class, so fuck it. He followed Billy down the hall, walking a step behind him, watching closely, just like he’d been doing these last few months. Observing the chatty, dickishly funny guy that existed behind the fists and the fury -- a guy who liked to smoke with Steve after school, leaning against the BMW before Max came skating over from the middle school. Steve stepped closer to this Billy every day. 

Billy led them to the locker room, which was empty since there was no gym period first hour. He stopped at his gym locker and pulled out several bottles. “Take your clothes off, Harrington.” 

Steve’s stomach flipped. “What - What-” his voice sounded high-pitched in his own ears, a little hysterical. 

Billy turned with an armful of supplies and held a towel out to Steve. “I’m gonna _help_ you dumbass. With your hair, and whatever other shit you need help with. Okay?” 

Steve took the towel. He didn’t really know what to say, didn’t really want to utter the _but, why?_ that was hiding in his mouth, so he just nodded.

“Okay. Let’s,” he gestured up Steve’s head, “let’s wash your hair. Can you take the splint off?” 

Steve unwrapped his hand, peeking around once before pulling off his t-shirt and sweatpants. “This is so fucking _weird_.”

“Listen. Do you want me to help you fix your shit or not?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Then quit bitching and let’s wash your hair.” 

“Is calling something weird _really_ bitching, though?”

“Harrington-”

“Ugh, okay, thanks? I guess.”

“You’re welcome. After you, pretty boy.” Billy nodded to the showers.

When he got under the warm water and Billy’s fingers slid into Steve’s hair, though, the pressure of them against his scalp, the slide through his hair, the light little massage as Billy worked in the shampoo -- Steve was grateful that he was facing forward, away from Billy, because he was sure there was no way he could conceal the feeling of bliss from his face. 

He hadn’t been touched at length since Nancy. Not like this. He’d had opportunities, moments at a party when Jessica White in the kitchen hugged him tight in the kitchen, let it go on too long, pressing her breasts against him, and later Maria Weyer in the living room let her lips brush over his ear as she talked to him over the music, but he found he just wasn’t interested -- not in the way that he used to be. He could’ve fucked them both. A year ago, he would’ve. 

So Billy’s fingers felt fucking _amazing_ with their gentle tugs and little circular caresses. Steve’s eyes slid shut as Billy tilted his head back, two fingers pressing Steve’s forehead back to let the warm water wash out the shampoo, then briefly repeated the process with a bit of conditioner.

Steve lost himself under Billy’s hands, hands that guided him to sit on the locker room bench, worked in a bit of mousse, blew it dry section by section, small tugs on his hair with a brush that pulled out a satisfied _mmm_. The sound was lost under the white noise of the dryer, but still there -- a result of all of this attention. All of this touching. He felt spoiled. Billy used a brush and some gel to style, then pumped a bit of hairspray before turning Steve around to look in the mirror. 

It hung a little looser on the sides than Steve normally let it -- it still had volume, that was just the way his hair was naturally, even when he was a little kid it stuck up everywhere, but somehow this style looked softer. More natural. 

Billy looked at Steve in the reflection with a giant shit-eating grin. “Not fuckin bad, huh.” 

Steve couldn’t help but smile back. “Don’t let your head get too big, Hargrove.” 

“Admit it. I can do your hair better than you ever did.” 

“I admit nothing.” 

“That’s hair worthy of a _crown_. I’m fucking _good_.”

“Ugh your _ego_. Jesus.”

Billy played with one of the locks swooping down the back of Steve’s neck. “Goddamn. I took this pretty boy and made him beautiful.”

“Did you now.” 

“Yeah. King Steve returns.” 

Billy’s fingers were still in Steve’s hair, just carding through the back of it -- Steve watched the reflection in the mirror as Billy looked at Steve’s neck. Billy’s fingers moved too slowly. His face fell from joking into -- something else entirely. Several seconds passed and he pulled his fingers back suddenly. Got really interested in his backpack. “Uhm. Let me help you with your books.” 

“Okay.” 

Steve gave Billy his locker combination and as he watched Billy turn the dial, spinning it with fingers that Steve now knew had a soft touch.

_~*~_

The whole process happened again the next morning. Steve met Billy at school at 6am as planned with a change of clothes and bathroom supplies. His exhaustion made him pliant. He let Billy do whatever -- wash his hair, shave his stubble, steer him by the shoulders to sit down while Billy fixed his hair. Everything. He was loose-limbed and yawning, and the locker room around them was silent.

Billy stood in front of Steve, styling the last bit of Steve’s hair. He slid his entire hand along the side of Steve’s head, firm pressure. 

Steve leaned into the touch.

Then he _moaned_.

It was long and loud enough to reverberate through the locker room. It sounded fucking _obscene_. Billy froze. 

Steve’s heart skipped from a sleepy, content rhythm to complete panic. “Uhm. I.” He felt like he couldn’t breathe -- felt totally exposed. “Do you have those notes for World History? From yesterday?”

“Yeah.” Billy lowered his hands. “Yeah I do.” He moved away slowly, glancing back once as he opened his backpack. 

Steve tried to slow down his breathing, in and out through his nose, letting each breath expand fully in his chest before exhaling as quietly as he could manage, because there was nothing more he wanted than Billy’s hands back on him. All it took was one firm touch and Steve was moaning like Billy had just wrapped his lips around Steve’s dick. It was _there_ , a thing between them now. And he couldn’t take it back.

Billy brought the notes over, and Steve took them with his left hand. This was stupid -- he couldn’t even copy them anyway with his writing hand all fucked up and Billy _knew_ that. So. He looked over them anyway. Might as well try any learn something, he guessed, if he was going to try to cover up his embarrassing displays of raw want with a need for historical enrichment.

_~*~_

Lunch really wasn’t any better. Steve struggled with his meatloaf, unable to grip the plastic knife correctly between his right fingers and palm. Billy watched for all of three seconds before pulling Steve’s tray away and cutting the meatloaf.

“Are you cutting his _food_ for him?” Tommy asked from across the table, a smug little sneer on his face.

“The fuck does it look like, shit-for-brains?” 

Carol laughed as she reapplied her lip gloss. “Poor little baby Stevie,” she cooed. “Gotta have a grown up cut up his food.” Tommy leaned into her and the shared a mean little laugh.

“How about you shut the fuck up.” Billy held up a fork with a bit of meatloaf on it in front of Steve’s mouth with a smile. His tongue poked out a little bit. “You hungry, Harrington?” 

Steve was _perfectly_ capable of lifting the fork with his left hand. But. If Billy wanted to go ahead and do this, Steve was more than willing to play. Carol and Tommy looked so fucking confused, and their scrunched up faces pleased the shit out of Steve. He leaned over and slowly bit the meat off the fork and maintained eye contact with Billy the entire time.

“What are they _doing_ , babe?” Carol asked as Billy held up another bite, scooting closer to Steve’s side.

“I don’t -- I don’t really know?” Tommy said. 

Steve took the next bite then _licked_ the fork that Billy held. “Very good,” Billy purred. 

Carol squeaked. 

“More,” Steve said after he swallowed. 

Billy arched an eyebrow. “Ask nicely.”

“More, _please_.”

Billy fed him another bite. “Aw, sweetheart, you got a little on your mouth. Here,” Billy dabbed the corner of Steve’s mouth with a napkin. 

Tommy tugged Carol’s sleeve. “Let’s go, babe. We’ll leave these _freaks_ alone.” They lifted their trays and left the table. 

“Good _fucking_ riddance,” Billy said. 

“They’re so obnoxious.” Steve reached for the fork with his left hand. 

“Come on. Let me.” Billy pulled the fork back.

“Seriously, Hargrove?” 

“Yeah, seriously.” 

“You get a kick out of this, don’t you. Helping me.” 

“Kinda. Yeah.” Billy shrugged a shoulder. He held another piece of meatloaf to Steve’s mouth. “I owe you, y’know.” 

Steve chewed and swallowed. “Owe me?” 

Billy reached up and touched along Steve’s hairline, where there was a small silvery scar. “For this.” 

The memory of a plate crashing on his head seemed as far away as the days of Gilgamesh from Billy’s world history notes. They’d never talked about it, not really, but Steve didn’t feel like it needed to be rehashed. The time they’d spent together lately kind of left that animosity in the Mesopotamian dust. “You don’t have to, Hargrove, I mean-”

“I _want_ to, though. So.” Billy stabbed another piece of meatloaf and held it out. “Let me.” 

When he was ill or injured growing up, Steve was used to being ignored or passed off. There had been a few times when his mom would give him a pat on the head and a “you’ll be fine sweetie,” but more often than not, he’d get a thermometer, an aspirin, and a sad smile from a rotating cast of assistants. 

This intense, focused care was foreign to Steve. He felt like he couldn’t put into words what this meant to him. Couldn’t tell Billy that he was doing more to make him feel like a human than he’d felt in a long while. 

“Alright,” he said, and took another bite.

_~*~_

In the mornings that followed, Steve managed to _not_ moan in front of Billy again, so he counted those as wins. Billy became increasingly more invasive in his helpfulness, though -- he picked Steve up for school, dropped him off, still helped with his hair, and even tried to help him brush his teeth. Steve had to draw the line somewhere, and that was when Billy tried to jam a toothbrush in his mouth. Even Steve’s teachers were helpful -- they took pity on him and let him be excused from written work but still held him responsible for knowing the material.

It didn’t stay like that for long, though.

A week later, between classes, Dave Steedman, a linebacker on the school’s football team, decided to knock all of Steve’s shit to the ground. Honestly, Steve had no idea what he’d even done to piss Dave off. It started with a bump to Steve’s shoulder and when Steve turned, Dave punched up under the pile of books and folders Steve had awkwardly cradled in his left hand. The books fell with a thud and papers flew everywhere.

Dave sneered. “King fuckin’ Steve my ass. Fuckin’ gimp loser.” 

Steve rolled his eyes and started to pick his shit up from the hall floor. “Pussy,” Dave spat down at him just as Billy was rounding the corner. 

Billy glanced between Dave sneering and Steve kneeling, then charged forward. He shoved Dave’s chest, _hard_ , and Dave slammed to the floor on his ass. He hovered over Dave and looked down at him with wild eyes while Steve gathered up his stuff. While Billy didn’t say a word, his stance screamed _stand up, I fucking dare you_. Dave looked up at Billy with a wide, terrified gaze, and didn’t move a muscle.

Steve picked up the last of his things and tugged on Billy’s arm. “Hey,” he said, feeling both a little turned on and a little worried that Billy was about to get in a fight with this dipshit and end up suspended -- the absolutely last thing that Billy needed because grades and Neil. 

Billy turned and pulled the messy pile of books, papers and folders from Steve’s hands. “I’ll help you sort this out in McKenzie’s room. You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, bewildered. He was fine, except that maybe his dick was a little hard, but he kept that one to himself. “Thanks.”

Dave lay on the floor unmoving until Billy disappeared around the corner. Steve followed, but turned around once more to face Dave. His thumb might have been injured, but his middle finger was just fine

_~*~_

On the Saturday three weeks after Steve had fucked up his thumb, Billy sat next to Steve on Steve’s bed. Steve could finally do his own hair without dropping fucking comb, so they decided to celebrate. Billy passed the joint back to Steve -- the weed made him feel loose. Relaxed.

He couldn’t remember at what point they’d jammed themselves up against each other, sitting back against the headboard, but Steve pressed his thigh a little tighter against Billy’s anyways. His mind felt cloudy and Billy felt warm, so. Fuck it. 

Steve inhaled deeply from what was left of the joint. They’d already smoked most of it down.

“Why was Wheeler calling you earlier? I thought you two were like, done.” Billy felt so _warm_ , even through their clothing. Steve reached over and placed the back of his index finger on Billy’s thigh, just to see if it would burn. 

“Jealous?” He moved his finger a little bit. 

Billy huffed a laugh. “Yep.”

“No, we’re definitely done. She was just making sure I wasn’t, like, going crazy or something.” 

“Why would she think that?” Billy took the joint from Steve and took the last couple hits before leaning over to place the roach in the ashtray. 

Steve missed his warmth for those four seconds. “Maybe because I _have_ been feeling crazy lately.” 

“You told her that?” 

“Oh no,” Steve started playing with the frayed strings next to the hole in the thigh of Billy’s jeans. “I told her I was fine. That you’ve been helping me.” 

Billy was watching Steve’s fingers. “But you _have_ been feeling crazy?” 

Steve touched the little hole in the denim. Felt skin underneath and a smattering of hair. Wanted to touch _more_. “Mmm. Kinda out of my mind.” 

“Yeah?” Billy breathed. 

“Uh huh.” 

“Why?”

Steve’s palm moved next to the bulge in his jeans and truth came pouring out of his mouth. “Cause I fucked up my stroking hand and that fucking _sucks_.” He tried a casual laugh but it sounded forced. He licked his lips. “I tried using my left hand, but it’s just not the _same_. It kind of takes forever and it’s driving me fuckin’ crazy.” 

That’s when Steve looked down to see that his left index finger was fully entrenched in the hole in Billy’s jeans, flexing, feeling the skin there, the rest of his hand splayed over Billy’s thigh. And Steve’s right hand had migrated over the bulge in his jeans, rubbing lazily with his palm. 

Steve felt like his brain was firing in slow motion, took him ages to think _maybe this is not right, maybe I should stop_ and even longer for that thought to reach his hands, god he was fucking _high_ , before Billy said, low, quietly, “I can help. Do you -- do you want me to?” 

Steve’s dick jumped under his hand. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay,” Billy said. Licked his lips. “Um. Scoot down a little.” 

Steve did as Billy said and tried not to think about this too much because fuck this was really happening. Billy slid in behind Steve, his chest pressed against Steve’s back. 

“Lean back,” Billy said as his hands slid down Steve’s sides, over his belly. Billy’s fingers worked at the button and the zipper of Steve’s jeans. 

Steve hooked his fingers around the waistband of his jeans and briefs and tugged them down, kicked them off, and his cock slapped back against him stomach. 

“Fuck, Harrington,” Billy’s mouth was against the skin of Steve’s ear. “You’re so fuckin sexy, you know that?” His fingers trailed over Steve’s cock as Steve settled back against Billy’s solid chest. 

Billy lifted up his right hand and _licked_ it. Wrapped it around Steve’s cock. “ _Billy_ ,” Steve said as Billy stroked up and down. Steve lifted his hips, worked himself in the circle of Billy’s hand. Thrusting, chasing the pressure of Billy’s fingers. Felt Billy’s cock pressing against his ass.

Steve reached back, tangled his fingers in Billy’s hair and Billy’s lips brushed over Steve’s neck and Steve started to think about how long he wanted this, wanted Billy in his bed, wanted to lay himself bare for Billy, let his guard down, felt it the first time Billy challenged him at basketball, the first time Billy charged up to him at the Halloween party, how that feeling had only grown over the last few months, how Billy had shown that he was caring in his own way and funny and protective and a bit of a dick but in a way that Steve _liked_. 

Thought about Billy taking care of him. Tending him him. Sticking up for him. Suddenly, everything shifted into place, and when he spilled over his stomach, over Billy’s hand, that’s when Steve realized that Billy was doing this because he _felt something_ for Steve. 

Steve turned his head back a bit. Pressed his lips to Billy’s, soft and unsure. Billy hesitated at first, then returned the pressure, and then. Then everything felt _right_. When Billy kissed Steve, over and over, moving so that he could change the angle, his nose mashed against Steve’s cheek, his fingers cupping the back of Steve’s neck, it was that moment of satisfaction, of _knowing_ that this was what he wanted all along, feeling how easily Billy would open his lips for Steve’s tongue. Billy made a soft sound as Steve kissed him, touched his face. Pulled back long enough to say, “Billy-- _baby_.”

Maybe they did this all backwards. They hadn’t kissed until Steve’s come was all over Billy’s hand, hadn’t really held each other until after Steve had given Billy an awkward left-handed handjob that Billy had labeled _not half-bad Harrington, maybe I’ll keep you around_. 

This whole thing was like one of those math problems that Steve could never seem to understand (and there were _plenty_ of those) until he got to the end and still ended up getting the right answer. Maybe he didn’t do it like the example in the textbook. But he still arrived at the correct conclusion. 

And as Billy dozed with his head of Steve’s thigh and the sheets gathered around his waist, Steve knew that this was something he’d gotten right.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Cars' _Just What I Needed_
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr! [tracy7307](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tracy7307)


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